


No More Words

by ladydeathfaerie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Writing on Skin, blame it on feelschat, using chocolate to make a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil hates those times when Clint has to visit medical after a mission gone wrong because they always end up with Clint brooding. This time, Phil comes up with an idea to try and lighten the other man's mood. If it just happens to involve chocolate and a paint brush, well... Surely that's a good way to make Clint smile again.</p>
<p>
  <i>Beautiful is not a word that Phil uses often when describing a man, but he uses it with Clint. Because Clint is beautiful. Clint is the most beautiful person Phil has ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlatlandDan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/gifts).



> a much belated birthday gift for [Flatlanddan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan) who came into chat on her birthday and asked for fic involving Clint and Coulson and writing on skin. and this is what my brain came up with. i apologize for the absolute lateness of this, Dani, and i can only hope you enjoy my meager offering.

The scars are thin and old, faded with time, but still filled with power and memory. Phil knows the shape of every single one of them. He knows the stories that belong to each one. He knows the feel of them under his fingers when he traces them. He only knows all of this because he's spent hours upon hours convincing Clint to tell him how those stretched and distorted letters had come to live upon his skin.

The stories are not happy ones. Hearing them had left Phil in a rage for far longer than he'd been happy about. But Clint had told them, when he'd finally given in and told them, in such a matter of fact way. As if they had been discussing the weather and nothing more. _"They're from my father. He didn't tolerate things being loud or out of place. So he didn't tolerate me. And he let me know in a way he knew would grab my attention."_

Phil knows all about Clint's family life. He's studied the man's personnel files extensively over the years, especially after having worked an assignment with the archer that had gone belly up from the very start. It had ended with Clint being sent to the hospital with numerous lacerations, a few broken ribs, and several deep marks left by an inept torturer. Marks that couldn't begin to touch those left behind by an abusive father with a sadistic streak a mile wide.

_Bastard._

Phil traces the word very carefully, his fingers gentle and light. Even so, Clint shudders at the touch, as he does every time Phil tries to erase their existence from the other man's body. It is the oldest of Clint's scars, the most pronounced. The one that Harold Barton had carved into his son's skin more than once. _"He called me a little bastard all the time. He accused my mother of whoring around on him. That was a reminder, a physical remembrance of the fact that he never thought I was his."_

The lines of the word are uneven, obviously carved there by an unsteady hand more than once. A drunken hand. A hand meant to protect, not harm. Phil leans in to press a soft, gentle kiss to the word. Clint shivers under the touch, his breath hitching in his throat with the tender caress. Phil moves on to the next one.

_Incompetent._

The letters here are not as crisp as on the previous ones. There are no extra lines here to suggest that Harold Barton attempted to carve the word more than once. Not that it matters. The letters are still there for all to see, though Clint doesn't allow many people to see them if he can help it. _"I was clumsy and I dropped a glass. It broke all over the floor. Dad was pissed. This was my 'reminder' that I should be more careful._ " Phil had asked how old Clint had been when this had happened. He still hasn't gotten the answer.

Phil slides his tongue across the word, an effort to erase the scar. And the memories that belong to it. Clint stifles a soft moan. His fingers curl into the mattress just a tiny bit, the only indication that he wants to do more than sit back and allow Phil to do all of the work. But Clint's just come home after a week in the hospital and Phil will not allow him to do anything more than enjoy the attention. 

_Stupid._ The lines on this one are still sharp, still easy to read. That's because someone has gone over them a time or two since the word was first carved into a child's flesh. Villains who thought they could use such methods of pain as a means to make Clint talk. If one was to look closely at the skin, the way Phil is looking now, they would see that there are three sets of carvings for that word. The oldest ones, the ones a father gifted to his child, are as faded as the rest. _"Dad did that one the day I brought home my report card and I had one C on it."_

This is the one word that has haunted Clint the most. After his parents' deaths and the orphanage, there was the circus. A place where education wasn't as paramount as hard work. This is the one word that Clint has allowed to define who he is. Because he does not have a high school or college education. Phil knows he's achieved his GED, but Clint doesn't see that as any kind of testament to his intelligence. And he is intelligent. 

The man is a wizard when he has a weapon in his hand. He can judge arcs and trajectories and wind speed and distance in his head. He can figure out where an arrow will go only seconds before loosing it to the wind. He is a genius with mathematics. But it isn't the kind of genius you can measure on paper. It isn't the kind of intelligence you can validate with a piece of paper that says you completed twelve years of book learning. Clint is brilliant in his chosen field, a true artist. A man of deep intelligence and even deeper merit. 

Phil presses tender kisses to the malformed arcs and curves, seeking to erase them from Clint's skin and his psyche. He strokes his hands over each souvenir left behind by Harold Barton's cruelty. He tries, as he has every other time they've done this, to take away the physical and mental pain that Clint suffered. He tries. 

And he fails. Because the words remain etched into Clint's flesh and into his mind. Eternal markers of the abuse one living soul can heap upon another. 

Phil hates them. All of them. Each word left written into Clint's skin makes Phil wish that Harold Barton hadn't killed himself in a car accident all those years ago. Because if the man were still alive, Phil would take great joy in returning the favor, in personally leaving words imprinted upon the man's skin. Most people don't see it, but Phil knows how such crimes have affected Clint. He's seen how Clint hides his personal demons behind a cheeky grin and a sarcastic smirk. No one sees the real Clint Barton. Not even Phil, who has known him and loved him for years, has seen all there is of the man known as Hawkeye. The years of abuse at his father's hand have undeniably altered him and Phil can't help but wonder who Clint was before he changed.

There are other words left behind. Words that are not as important as those three. Words given to Clint by terrible men who attempted to pry information from him by using an old and obvious method. These are men who are no longer alive to learn that such tactics don't work on Clint. He's suffered the worst kind of abuse any person can suffer. The worst kind of betrayal. 

Phil allows his fingers to trace each of the newer words that live on Clint's back. _Traitor_. Thin and neat, done with a professional hand. Phil knows from first hand experience that the thing had bled for hours. A curse in Russian. One that had made Natasha swear for an hour before swearing vengeance upon a man who no longer walked the earth. Japanese characters that spell out an ancient curse upon his family. When he'd been told what it meant, Clint had laughed and said his family was already cursed. One last word, carved in jagged lines by an inexperienced hand. _Liar_.

Everyone responsible for leaving such awful things in Clint's skin is dead. Either by Phil's hand or by fate. All that remains are the words people used to hurt him with. Both physically and mentally. Phil has made it his job in life to try and erase the effects of those words. At least the mental ones. He can do nothing about the physical beyond what he already does. And he does it time and time again. It has become a ritual and a rite.

Every time one of Clint's missions go wrong, every time he ends up in medical and has to expose those words to strangers who may look upon him with pity or sorrow, they come home to their apartment and Phil does his best to wash away the discomfort and the pain that comes with visits to medical. He uses mouth and hands, tongue and teeth, in an effort to cleanse the memories again, to let Clint know that he's perfect as he is. That Phil loves him, scars and all. That those words are horrible lies.

His hands stroke up and down Clint's back, light touches that send shivers of sensation running along the man's spine. Phil can feel the tension in his muscles as he tries to hold back the things that tell Phil he's enjoying himself. So Phil starts tracing some of the more mundane scars with his fingertips in an effort to draw more from Clint. 

He follows the thin line that arcs around Clint's rib cage toward the front. Faint tremors boil under the archer's skin. Phil laves a starburst shape scar high on Clint's shoulder with his tongue before nipping at it gently. Clint heaves a heavy sigh and lets his head fall forward. Memory guides Phil's hand as he slides it to the front and traces the jagged line that makes its way up from hip to sternum. Not deep, but still bad. For a while, they'd wondered if the infection would kill him. 

Phil presses closer so that he can work a line of kisses along Clint's jaw and down his throat. His hands keep moving, keep marking the paths of various and numerous scars. Clint shivers and shudders under Phil's touch. But there's something wrong. The ritual isn't working the way it always has before. By now, Clint should be practically begging for Phil to touch him. To suck him off or fuck him. To give him the release that always wipes out the last of the bad memories. 

Sighing, Phil slides off the bed and stands before Clint. The man's eyes stare, seeing some far off and distant thing that Phil cannot possibly be part of. Phil has never seen him like this before. He goes down on his knees before the other man and takes his chin in hand. "Clint," he begins, voice soft and pitched for persuasion. Clint blinks. Looks at him. But doesn't really see him. "Put it aside, Clint. Let it go and come back to me." 

It takes Clint effort and time. Eventually, his eyes focus on Phil and its plain to see that something happened while Clint was visiting with the medical staff. He lets his hands slide away from Clint's chin, lets them glide down the man's arms until he can rest his hands over Clint's. The actions bring Clint's attention completely back to the here and now. Blue eyes stare at Phil questioningly. "Tell me." 

"No." His jaw takes on a stubborn set even as Clint pulls his hands out from under Phil's. 

"Tell me and I'll take care of it," Phil insists. 

"You can't keep terrorizing the doctors when ever they say something that upsets me," Clint laughs. It is a hollow and brittle sound, telling Phil more than Clint ever will himself. "They're already deathly afraid of seeing me now. If you go down there and start chewing ass, it'll only get worse. And something tells me Fury is getting tired of replacing doctors." 

"Nick understands the reasons. Had he said anything specific about not terrorizing the staff, I wouldn't be doing it. As it stands, he hasn't given any such orders. And he values your continued health and employment far more than theirs," Phil explains patiently. 

"Just let it go, Phil. Please. I don't want to think about it again," Clint replies. His words are a plea, just shy of begging. Phil considers it, knowing that whatever has happened is because of the scars upon Clint's back. It always comes back to those damned words and again, as always, Phil wishes he could erase the words from Clint's skin. Erase what those words have done to him over the years. 

He wants to push it, wants to know who it was that spoke out of turn. He wants to see to it that they're punished for their lack of tact and their stupidity. But the look in Clint's eyes begs in a way that Clint's words don't, practically plead with him not to ask again. Phil sighs softly to himself. "Alright, Clint. I'll let it go. But I hate seeing you like this." 

"I'm sorry, Phil. I didn't think it would be as bad this time," Clint mutters and looks away. Phil knows that some part of Clint keeps waiting for the shoe to drop. Some part of Clint expects that this will all be taken from him. Everyone he's ever loved in his life has been taken from him. Or left him. There is a part of Clint that is fragile. Clint hides it from the world well, but Phil knows him too well. There's no way Clint can hide it from him. And it is in those moments that Phil wishes he could do unspeakable things to Harold Barton for using words to destroy his son. 

Words...

Phil pauses. An idea flares to life in his mind and he wonders if it could be as simple as that. Could he combat the damage done by those careless words with carefully chosen words of his own? Could he make Clint see his value by writing it on his skin? Could it really be that simple? 

Phil leans in and catches Clint's lips with his own. The kiss is soft and gentle, with no pressure or expectation. He feels Clint relax into the kiss and slides his arms around the man's waist. Rests his hands on the upper curve of his buttocks. He knows that his hands are settled on some of the lesser scars Clint carries. Phil uses his touch and his kiss to make a promise. Maybe Clint can read his intentions in his actions. Maybe he can't. But the kiss and the caress see some of the tension sliding out of his shoulders. Phil draws back before Clint can deepen the kiss. "Stay here. I'll be right back. I want to try something, if you're game."

"If it gets you naked and in my bed, I'm all for it," Clint shoots back. There is a hint of his usual cockiness in his voice and in the smile he gives Phil. But only a hint. He's trying, for Phil's sake. Maybe Phil can make it all better. After delivering another kiss, he pulls away and gains his feet. He's out of the room before he can truly consider whether his idea is going to help or hurt.

His first stop is the kitchen. There's a bottle of chocolate syrup in the fridge and Phil grabs it. He takes a small bowl from the cupboard and squeezes some of the chocolate into it. The bowl goes into the microwave for a little bit, until the chocolate is warm and slightly runny. The bottle of syrup goes back into the refrigerator for the next time Clint wants some chocolate milk. Or chocolate on his ice cream.

Chocolate in hand, his next stop is his home office. The room doesn't see much use, as Phil tends to do all his work at the office, so it has become a kind of catch all of items. There is a desk with a laptop upon it, as well as a wall of books and a few filing cabinets. But there are also various other items spread around the room. Including a set of paint brushes. Phil doesn't know where they came from, but he knows there's a brush in there that will be perfect for what he's got in mind. He locates the set of brushes easily and selects the smallest one possible. Brush in hand, Phil returns to the bedroom. 

Clint is sitting where Phil left him, hands hanging limply between his thighs. His gaze is focused on the floor, but it shifts up to Phil's face when Phil enters the room. His eyes shift from the bowl Phil holds in one hand to the brush caught up in the other. A thousand questions slide through Clint's eyes as he tries to puzzle out what Phil is going to do. 

"I'm going to show you that words aren't forever. And they don't have to be bad," Phil tells him as he sinks to his knees before Clint. The bowl of chocolate is set down beside him for a moment while Phil lets his hands trail up the heavy muscles of Clint's thighs. "You trust me, right?" 

"Of course I trust you, Phil," Clint replies, a bit of a bite to his words. As if he's calling Phil an idiot for even asking such a question. Phil nods and picks up the bowl. Takes the brush in his hand and dips it into the chocolate. Leans closer so that he can begin painting the first word onto Clint's left thigh. "Phil, what are you doing?" 

"Just be quiet. Watch. You'll see." 

The chocolate is slightly thick, but heating it leaves it liquid enough to make an adequate paint. Phil makes sure each letter is concise and neat and perfectly drawn against Clint's skin. He starts with L. Dips the brush into the chocolate after each stroke so that there's never a chance for the letter to come out only half scribed. Ten dips later, _Loyal_ glistens on Clint's thigh. 

"Phil--"Clint begins, but Phil cuts him off with a look. 

"Loyal. Because I've never met a man who is more loyal to his friends and his job. No one is more dedicated to everyone in their life like you are, Clint. Even though you are sometimes forced to take a life, you know the value of that life and never take it recklessly or carelessly. There is always a toll. You try to hide it, but I see it. That toll eats at you. Yet you do what you're asked without complaint." Phil offers him a faint smile. 

"Phil, I don't know what to say," Clint stammers out, obviously taken aback by Phil's actions. Phil's smile softens and gentles. 

"Don't say anything, Clint. Just watch. And read." 

Phil dips the brush again and turns to Clint's right thigh. Stroke and dip. Stroke and dip. _Fierce_. As with the other leg, the lettering is neat and clear. Easy to read. Phil makes sure to look up and catch Clint's eyes with his own. The confusion is so plain to see, so easy to read in eyes that are normally closed and shuttered windows. It makes Phil wonder if no one in Clint's life has ever sat him down and told him that he is this amazing person. 

"Fierce. Because you never quit fighting. Not even when the odds are stacked against you," Phil tells him, voice heavy with conviction. He knows that Clint knows exactly what he means. Natasha is only one of the many examples of times when Clint has stuck to his own personal beliefs. The man is not only fierce in his fighting, but tenacious and so god damn capable. "You always find a way, Clint. It doesn't matter if that means you take the brunt of the hit. You find a way and you make it work. It isn't as common a quality as one might think. And I've worked with a lot of people over the years."

Phil reaches up and takes hold of Clint's left arm, pulls it straight and shoots Clint a look at says he should leave it where Phil puts it. When he lets go, Clint keeps his arm suspended in air and simply waits. Phil takes the bowl of chocolate in hand once more, dips the brush and paints yet another word on the man's skin. 

Clint opens his mouth, obviously ready to interrupt, but says nothing when Phil glares at him. The chocolate is still warm enough to go on smoothly, the brush returning to the bowl after each stroke for a fresh coat. His writing is always neat, but he takes extra care with his lettering so that there can be no doubt in Clint's mind. _Strong_.

Phil knows exactly what Clint wants to say here, knows it because he's seen the look the other man gets sometimes when he thinks no one is watching. When he's staring at the rest of his team and wondering why it is that he's on it. "There are more kinds of strength than just physical, Clint. You have strength of character and conviction. There are so many people who don't have that. And there are those who do who would lose that strength if they'd gone through some of the things you have. You are so incredibly strong." 

He shoots Clint a look that sees the man lifting his right arm for Phil. Clint positions it in exactly the same manner as his left and remains silent. Almost passive. But Phil knows that Clint's mind is turning, that its taking in everything Phil says. Clint will mull over every piece of information that he's told. He'll consider it and study it and pull it apart until he can see every single bit of meaning behind the words Phil is painting onto his skin. 

Another dip means the start of another word. Very soon, Clint's right arm is emblazoned with yet more praise and honor. _Capable_.

"You always find a way. You always come through, no matter what the odds. And you can do whatever needs to be done. All you have to do is put your mind to it."

The chocolate is in his hand again. This time, he takes the brush to Clint's chest. If it tickles, Phil doesn't know because Clint holds himself still and doesn't move a muscle. This is the same way Clint approaches a sniper job and Phil wonders absently, and not for the first time, if the ability is innate or if Clint's had to teach himself to be still.

In the same careful hand as he's used on both arms and legs, Phil spells out three more words across the broad canvas of Clint's chest. Phil takes great care with these words, making sure that each letter is especially neat and orderly. Easily read. Even though each word is important, the three he paints onto Clint's chest are the ones he wants to mean the most. So he takes his time despite the way the floor grows harder and harder under his knees. He paints each letter on with the utmost reverence even though his back hates this position and is already screaming for him to get up and move. 

Phil doesn't have to worry about Clint not being able to read what he's writing. Clint's talents are many and there have been quite a few occasions where Clint has read a file that was upside down. His eyesight is excellent, after all. 

"Amazing," Clint whispers as Phil finishes the first word. There is perhaps just a touch of wonder in his voice that suggests these are words he's never even considered before. Phil is sure no one has used them in regard to Clint Barton, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most infamous pain in the ass agents.

"Because you are," Phil says emphatically. He doesn't go into detail with that one, because he knows that he could spend all night telling Clint just how he's amazing and the man wouldn't believe him. "You're the most amazing person I've ever met. And I've met quite a few people in my life." 

Phil moves on to the next word, falling silent so that he can give every single ounce of his concentration to the task of forming the letters. The chocolate is starting to get thick, which means he doesn't have a lot of time before he can't use it any longer without another trip to the microwave. And he wants to complete this without any interruptions. 

"Brilliant." There is wonder in Clint's voice at that. 

Phil looks him squarely in the eyes. "You are. What you do isn't easy. It takes so much brain power. There are numerous calculations that go into firing a single arrow. You do them all in your head. On the fly. And you never miss. Maybe you don't have a college degree, but you're still a lot smarter than most people. And it hurts me that you don't even see it." 

Even as he's speaking, Phil returns to painting his feelings on Clint's flesh. He has one last word to add to the canvas that is his lover before he's finished. If he's taken his time with the others, he is excruciatingly slow with this one. Each letter is painted on with a healthy dose of love. When the brush touches Clint's abdomen, it quivers ever so slightly. A minor tell letting Phil know that Clint is not as unaffected by this as he pretends to be. Phil isn't sure if the its the touch of the brush doing this to the other man or the choice of words. Or both. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that Clint is listening. 

There's a soft gasp from Clint when Phil finishes the final word. He doesn't even say it out loud, only stares at the newest addition to the list of words that describe him. _Beautiful_. 

Beautiful is not a word that Phil uses often when describing a man, but he uses it with Clint. Because Clint is beautiful. Clint is the most beautiful person Phil has ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. The physical and emotional scars and the callouses on his hands from pulling the string of his bow don't matter. The defensive sarcasm doesn't matter. Not even the lack of faith in himself matters. All of it has combined together to make a single person. A whole person. A beautiful person. Inside and out. Every one of Clint's experiences from the moment he was born until now, when he sits so completely naked in front of Phil with chocolate painting his skin, has worked toward making him that beautiful soul. And Phil will never stop trying to make him see just how amazing he is.

This is Phil's gift to Clint. A word for a word. One good one for each bad one. Including one extra for good measure. Phil puts the bowl of chocolate aside, the brush resting inside of it so as not to drip chocolate everywhere, and rises up so that he can look Clint straight in the eyes. "Those words on your back don't mean a thing. Every single one of them is a lie told you by someone who didn't really know you. I know how hard it is to forget something you've believed for so long, but you need to stop letting them define you. Because they have nothing to do with you. They don't describe the man I know and love. At all." 

Phil doesn't bother to telegraph his intentions. He doesn't want Clint stopping him. Not tonight. Not when this is so important. Possibly even more important to Clint than the man realizes. So Phil leans into him, wraps his arms around the man's shoulders, pulls him close. The chocolate is sticky and smears the moment their torsos touch. Clint tries to back out of the hold, but Phil slides his fingers into Clint's hair and tightens his grip, then drags Clint's head down so that they can kiss. 

It is somehow like kissing Clint for the first time all over again. Electricity sparks between their lips, forks from one tongue to the other as Phil slides his tongue into Clint's mouth. The kiss is slow and sweet, heady and heated. It is chaste and highly charged all at the same time. And there's a soft tremor running under Clint's skin as Phil's hands drift slowly down over muscled planes. If his fingers press gently where he knows a scar lives, it does little more than make Clint shiver.

Phil lets his hands explore terrain already memorized, lets them pretend this is a new map so that his fingers trace over every line and trail over every curve. Clint moans, a faint rush of sound that Phil takes as his own. He also takes it as a sign that Clint is ready and willing to do whatever Phil might chose to do tonight. So Phil leans further into Clint, puts his weight on him, and gradually presses him down into the bed. Clint hitches his legs around Phil's waist and grinds their groins together. Even through the layers of clothing, there is no missing Clint's erection. 

Phil breaks away from Clint's mouth and lifts his head long enough to see that the archer's lips are swollen from their kisses. And Clint's eyes are as dark as that final strip of blue caught between velvet night and the fiery colors of sunset. Phil could get lost in those eyes. Because where Clint's mouth is all carefully calculated lies and half-truths, and dismissive cockiness constructed as a means to protect who he is on the inside, Clint's eyes are all truth. They are hard-edged and worn. Deep and fathomless as the ocean. They are beautiful. And the look presently in them is only for Phil. 

He lowers his head again, trails kisses down the side of the man's face until he can bury his nose in Clint's neck. The chocolate doesn't quite cover the smell of soap and antiseptic. It also doesn't quite cover the smell that Phil knows is uniquely Clint's. Phil allows himself a moment to bask in that scent before he turns his attention toward biting and sucking all those spots on Clint's throat that drive the man wild.

"Oh, god. Phil. Phil, please. Just... Don't... Stop. Please." Clint's words come in fits and starts, his body trying to squirm under Phil's. Phil smiles into Clint's neck before he works his way down toward a nipple. And when he finally encounters the chocolate that is now smeared across the man's flesh, he flicks his tongue out to lick the sweet liquid away. Clint groans and bucks beneath him. "I need you inside of me now." 

Phil doesn't answer. Instead, his hands move down to take hold of Clint's hips and he presses them hard into the mattress. There is a short, pained whimper from his partner that suggest he is not happy with this turn of events. But Clint doesn't say anything. Nor does he do anything. He merely tries to quell the needs of his body because he knows from prior experience that Phil will take his own sweet time.

The muscles under his tongue and teeth are pulled tight with want and need. Clint's breathing has gone from slow and steady to sharp and harsh panting. It is taking every last ounce of Clint's considerable restraint to keep his hands curved around the back of Phil's head, fingers doing nothing more than curling into Phil's hair. He knows Clint wants nothing more than to draw Phil closer, press him down, shift him around until he's where Clint wants him to be. He does none of these things, merely waits with a patience that only a highly skilled sniper could possess.

There is a reason Phil makes Clint wait, a personal reason. Years spent working with Clint in high stress situations have shown him a man who is capable of great calm in the most dangerous of settings. Clint is a man who always holds himself together when the fighting is bloody and dirty. And Clint is a man who takes every last thing he sees and buries it deep inside of himself. He hides it away and keeps it. Phil likes to see Clint slowly unravel and lose control of himself. 

And it isn't like Clint doesn't have fits of temper. It isn't like he doesn't show his emotions on occasion. But those instances don't count. What Phil wants to see is the purity of Clint's passions. He wants to watch as each muscle fights and slowly gives itself over to the inevitable. He wants to see the man he loves form out of the man that Clint shows to the world. So he pushes and he teases and he pleasures until Clint is soft and pliant beneath him. Until he begs so beautifully that Phil can't help but give him what he wants and needs. Because it is only then that Phil is sure Clint understands Phil's intentions. 

The words engraved upon his skin do not define who he is. The harsh, horrible words that other people gave him do not make him a loser or a traitor or a bad son. They make him human. And what matters most are the words that live in Clint's heart. The ones that speak of a man who will never let himself fail. Because he doesn't believe he belongs on a team with superheroes. Because he believes he is nothing more than a man. What matters most are the words that Phil tells him time and time again. That he is more than what those people tried to make him. He is more than a few poisonous words meant to belittle and abuse. He is Clint Barton. Hawkeye. An Avenger. The world's greatest marksman. 

And he is the man that Phil loves.

So Phil makes Clint wait him out. Phil teases and tempts and touches. Phil works him to the point of insanity. Because in those moments when Clint is hungry for Phil and needy and begging for more and desperate, those are the moments when Clint is most himself. Those are the moments when he lets Phil deep inside to see everything that Clint is. Those are the moments when words mean nothing and feeling is everything. For both of them. Phil knows its selfish, but he can't help himself. He has a need to see Clint laid bare, taken apart and exposed before him like that.

He drags his tongue through the smear of chocolate sauce, savoring the sweet-tart flavor of the chocolate mingled with the taste of Clint's skin. The tip of his tongue traces patterns in the dark liquid as Phil slowly works his way down to the indent of Clint's navel. Some of the sweet syrup has dripped into the indentation, has pooled thickly in the tiny bowl. Phil's tongue dips in and laps the sticky sweetness out. Clint's abdomen quivers under the touch, sending a rush of satisfaction through Phil's veins. 

He takes his time, each touch orchestrated to draw Clint deeper into the pool of pleasure building between them. Phil alternates between stroking Clint's skin with fingers that barely graze his flesh to dragging his tongue across the chocolate covered planes of his chest. He allows himself to suck long and hard at Clint's nipples, to worry them with his teeth until both tiny nubs are hard and aching. Then Phil blows on them and watches Clint's face cloud with desire and his eyes flutter closed as a moaning sigh escapes his throat. 

There is a small swell of pride deep in his chest, brought to life by the fact that he can do this to Clint with only a handful of touches. Despite being quick to temper, Clint has always kept his emotions locked away. Phil knows that he does so in an effort to protect himself. So it always amazes him when he can reduce Clint to wanton moaning and quivering need with very little effort. 

And Phil knows he could stop here. He knows he could bring his actions to a halt and order Clint up on his hands and knees and Clint would obey. Clint has never denied him his wants and needs. Sometimes Phil thinks he does it to keep Phil at his side. The archer has always been insecure in his relationships. It isn't something that Clint's ever really brought up, but Phil knows the insecurity is there. Phil has never abused Clint's trust in him whilst in bed and he never will. Because its obvious that to do so would end their relationship, even if Clint never walked out the door. 

Clint's cock is hard, caught between their bodies as Phil continues tasting and teasing. The slit is leaking, letting Phil know that the other man is highly turned on. Combine that with the soft moans, the sighs, the begging and pleading, the faint quiver under Clint's skin, and Phil is in heaven. While he is turned on by touch, these are the things that draw deep responses from him. Seeing Clint slowly warm up and come alive under Phil's careful ministrations is what sees Phil himself becoming turned on. Sound, smell, and touch are the most important components for him. 

He enjoys learning the texture of Clint's skin with hands and tongue. He enjoys hearing Clint pant and moan and beg and plead. He enjoys the way the man writhes beneath him, using his entire body as a silent invitation to take what he wants. He enjoys seeing the flush that creeps across Clint's cheeks as the need takes root and grows. These things, signs of his ability to drive Clint insane with want, are the things that really see Phil's blood pumping in his veins. It is this, to see Clint stripped of his insecurities and lost in the pleasure being given to him, that turns Phil on the most.

With steady intent and slow caresses, Phil works his way down Clint's body until he's level with the other man's erection. A quick glance up shows him that Clint is watching him intently, eyes dark with hunger and tension pulling every single muscle tight under the man's skin. Phil gives him a smile before dipping his head down. He wraps his lips around the head of Clint's cock and draws a portion of the man's length into his mouth. Clint's back arches up off the bed. His groan fills the air, painting their bedroom with the plaintive sound of his desire.

Clint's obvious pleasure makes something tighten deep in Phil's belly. He slides forward, taking more of Clint into his mouth. Pulls back until just the head is caught between his lips. Slides forward again. So slowly. Clint's hips shift, but the movement is aborted before they can buck up and drive more of his cock into Phil's mouth. It proves to Phil that he's still in control, that he hasn't yet lost all sense of self. That means more work on Phil's part, but this is a task that he is well suited to. One he enjoys doing. 

So Phil settles once more on the floor, on his knees. He'll live with the aches and pains, with the possibility of rug burn, in order to take Clint right to the very edge and break him down into a panting mess of emotion and hunger. Clint will no doubt fight the process. He always does. But Phil has never failed in any task or mission set for himself. Driving all thought from Clint's head and giving him the freedom of simply _being_ is something Phil is quite capable of doing.

He lets his mouth tease, alternating long, slow strokes with short, fast ones. Sometimes he brings his hands up to cradles Clint's balls, lets his fingers tease at the man's sac. Sometimes he pulls almost all the way back until only the head of Clint's cock remains in his mouth so that his hands can stroke and fondle and caress. Sometimes he withdraws completely so that he can trace patterns against the smooth skin with the tip of his tongue. There is no pattern, no rhyme or reason to his actions. He simply does because he knows that he will wear away at Clint's control with each motion.

And through it all, Clint moans out his pleasure. Pants heavily with his need. Begs Phil softly with a few mumbled words and the shift of his body. He's looking for more. Wants more. Needs more. Asks for it. Begs for it. 

After what seems an age, though is in reality probably only five or ten minutes, Phil reaches out with one hand so that his fingers can snag the knob on the bedside table's drawer. He doesn't need to see inside the drawer to know where the things he's looking for are. His fingers close over the cool shape of a plastic bottle. The foil wrapper of a condom. He brings them out of the drawer and settles them on the floor beside him without ever breaking away from Clint. Clint, who is now making what sounds like mewling sounds. Clint, whose hips are jerking of their own accord, trying to drive his cock deeper down Phil's throat. 

Clint, who is well past thinking and far into the realm of feeling. 

Phil gives one last slow stroke to Clint's cock before letting it slide free of his mouth. The tip of his tongue swipes across the head, teasing the clear pre-cum out of the slit, to draw an extra sighing breath from Clint. He can tell how far gone Clint is simply by the fact that it takes him far too long to react when Phil moves away from him and rises to his feet. By the time Clint can lift his eyelids to stare at Phil, Phil is settling on the bed next to him. 

Clint's thighs spread even further open at a touch from Phil's hand, allowing him to trace feather soft touches along the sensitive flesh between them as he works his way up to his final destination. Clint moans, a low and throaty sound that fills the silence of their bedroom. That sound is filled with such need, it spears Phil to the core. He lets his fingers graze against the underside of Clint's balls and that touch is all it takes for Clint to open to him. 

Phil squeezes some of the lube out onto his fingers, just a little bit to start with. Then he gently works his fingers between Clint's ass cheeks, finds the puckered ring of muscles and eases his way past it. Clint gives a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, his body going boneless with that simple action. Phil's fingers press into him, stroking with long, deep strokes that leave the other man panting softly. "God, Phil. You're killing me." 

"Patience is a virtue. And I know you can be patient a little longer," Phil admonishes gently. He removes his fingers so he can add more lube to them, then presses them inside once again and works them deep. At first, he simply strokes them in and out to spread the slick around and give Clint a chance to become accustomed to the intrusion. Gradually, though, he begins spreading his fingers apart. Adds another. And another.

Phil puts Clint's patience to the test, works him as slowly as he dares. He makes sure to add more lube when the need arises, but his main focus is on giving his partner all of his attention. Giving him every last bit of pleasure he can. So it is a long, long time before he feels he has Clint fully stretched and ready for him. And Clint, when he finally draws his hand away, is sheened with sweat, his chest heaving and his cock so hard that it almost looks painful. Clint is perfect and ready.

Phil shifts himself around on the bed until he's sitting in the middle of the bed. He reaches for the bottle of lube and the condom. Clint moves, almost bonelessly, slowly pulling himself up onto the bed to watch as Phil readies himself. His eyes are dark and heavy, pupils wide, as he watches Phil's hands work the condom from its package and roll it down over his cock. Phil strokes up the length of his erection once the condom is in place, then reaches for the lube. Clint's hungry gaze follows his every move as he pours liquid into his hand, then takes hold of his cock and runs his hand up the length to the head. 

Clint groans, his own erection twitching with need.

Phil makes sure to coat the condom liberally with lube, adding it two more times, before closing the bottle and tossing it aside. He doesn't have to say anything to Clint, barely has a chance to hold his hand out to the other man before Clint is straddling his thighs to sit in his lap. No directions need to be given. Phil lays back against the bed even as Clint moves up so that he's kneeling over Phil. One hand reaches between them to take hold of Phil's cock and hold it while Clint positions himself. 

Time hangs suspended for one long, excruciating moment. Clint has the head of Phil's cock just touching the ring of carefully stretched muscles, the promise of that all-enveloping heat teasing the sensitive tip as Clint stares down at him. Phil can see, under the thick layer of desire, the faint remainder of his earlier insecurities. They're lingering, waiting for a chance to rise to the fore again. Phil smiles at him and curls his hips around Clint's hips. Squeezes gently. And has to force himself to keep his eyes open as Clint sinks down over him. 

Clint is all warm, tight heat as he takes Phil into him. He moves so slowly, cherishing every single iota of sensation so intensely that his eyes slid closed and he groans long and loud. Phil wants to shove himself deep with one thrust, but he holds onto the need and makes mental note of every look that crosses Clint's face. Its an age before he's fully buried inside of the other man. He grips Clint's hips tightly to prevent him from moving, intent on savoring the moment for as long as is physically possible.

Clint is skilled at reading the non-verbal cues and holds himself still even as his eyes finally open so he can stare down at Phil. Everything Clint is feeling shows in his eyes, all of his emotions raw and hard-edged and so very close to the surface. This is the way Phil likes to see Clint. Alive and open and receptive. He hates the way his partner can so efficiently and quickly close himself off, hates to see Clint like that with a passion that is unequalled by anything else in his life. That look deserves every ounce of physical praise Phil can give to Clint. 

Phil reaches for him, pulls Clint down over him so that he can kiss him hard and deep. The action shifts Clint over him and pulls a soft moan from them both. Their mouths meet and mesh, lips brushing against each other restlessly before their tongues enter the fray. Phil's hands glide up to spear into Clint's hair, to hold his head in one position so that Phil can plunder his mouth properly. Just as he always does, Clint gives himself over to the kiss with the kind of reckless abandon Phil has come to recognize as his and his alone. 

It doesn't take long for the kiss to turn hot and wet. Phil's hands slide away from Clint's head, make their way down his back until he can rest them on the upper curve of Clint's ass. He splays his fingers, kneads softly at the firm flesh beneath them. Pulls a soft moan out of Clint. In return, Clint tightens his muscles down around Phil's cock and squeezes. Phil shifts his hands until they have made their way to Clint's chest. A gentle push sees the man sitting up. Phil once more takes hold of Clint's hips and, with the slightest change in pressure, gives the other man the go ahead. 

That first stroke is so achingly slow. Clint lifts himself until Phil is almost all the way out, then settles down until Phil is once more inside of him. For a moment, Phil allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes, of savoring the heat as it wraps itself around him once again. Clint repeats the actions, taking a good deal of time to lift himself up and slide back down. It feels like Phil's idea of heaven and hell rolled into one. There is so much sensation to stimulate him that he wants nothing more than to throw Clint on his back and fuck him until the two of them can't even speak anymore. 

Clint's pace picks up, a gradual thing that sees him shifting at a steady pace. Phil can see by the way his eyes keep closing that the friction is almost perfect for him, that he's only holding himself back because he wants to give Phil what he feels the man deserves. Its one of the things Phil loves about Clint. He's so selfless even though few people see it. He gives of himself and doesn't take, always seeking to please those he cares about in any way he can. It isn't right that he's doing so now, when this is supposed to be about Phil reminding Clint that he's more than the horrible things other people have said to him. 

Phil decides it is time to reinforce his lesson from earlier. 

He strokes his hands up Clint's torso until his fingers find the man's nipples. The chocolate is sticky now, but it provides just enough lubrication for Phil to stroke and tease the twin nubs. Clint sighs and, as Phil expected, lets his head fall back on his shoulders. It gives Phil the opportunity to admire the strong lines of Clint's throat, the way the skin pulls tight over muscle and tendon. By God, this is exactly how he likes to see Clint. Wanton and open. _Beautiful_. 

"Jesus, Clint. I wish you could see just how amazing you look like this," Phil whispers, his fingers trailing through the drying chocolate to stroke those spots where Clint was almost ticklish. The man quivers over him and under his touch, his hips thrusting hard against Phil's as he allows himself to fall into the tight knot of passion building between them. 

Clint answers him with a soft grunt as he bottoms out and holds himself there for just a few seconds. There must be some small burn to it because Clint's thighs clench Phil's hips tightly for a heartbeat or two. So do the muscles wrapped so tightly around Phil's cock. Phil can't help the gasp that comes at the sensation of the other man tightening down on him. He curls his fingers, digs his nails into Clint's flesh and groans. The minor pain brought by the bite of Phil's nails sees Clint shudder ever so slightly. 

Phil lets his hands slide down to curl about Clint's hips again, fingers reaching back so that they can touch the curve of Clint's ass. Prompts him to move a little faster and a little harder. The sliding friction makes Phil's nerves tingle, makes his body start tightening up in advance. He's trying so hard not to lose himself, but its so hard to do with Clint's heat wrapped so snugly around him. So hard to do when Clint's cock bobs enticingly with every single thrust. "Remember when I painted beautiful on your skin?" Phil asks in an effort to keep him from throwing Clint on his back so that he can hammer himself into him. 

"Phil--" 

"You should see yourself. Your skin is flushed with need. Your eyes are as dark as the night sky. You're unchained, Clint. You've let go of everything, so you're wild and unfettered. Like a hawk in flight. You're so beautiful like this, Clint. This is the man I fell in love with," Phil tells him. The knot of tension is growing and growing, tightening up until it feels like Phil will shatter when it breaks. He brings a hand around and wraps it around Clint's cock. Strokes it in time with Clint's thrusting hips. "My God, Clint. You couldn't be anymore beautiful. Everything I wrote on you is the truth. You are all those things and so much more. So much more." 

Clint's hands come to rest on Phil's chest as his hips churn faster and faster. He's panting, beads of sweat standing out on his face. It darkens his hair and glues it to his forehead. Adds to the utterly wanton look he's wearing. "Phil, please," Clint rasps, voice hoarse with need. Tight with trying to hold back. Broken. 

"Look at me, Clint," Phil whispers. It isn't an order, merely a request, but Clint obeys regardless. His eyes are deep and fathomless and Phil can feel himself falling into them. It would be so easy to get lost in that look. His hand continues to stroke up and down Clint's cock, drawing ragged breaths out of the man's chest. "I want you to watch my face. Don't look away. I want you to see the love I have for you when you finally come. When I come. I want you to see it and I want you to remember everything I told you. You're the most beautiful person I know and I love you. Nothing will change that. Nothing." 

His words fade and instinct takes over. His hips buck up into Clint and his hand works at the man's cock, strokes and pulls and tugs as he draws Clint closer and closer to his orgasm. Clint's rhythm is the first one to falter. Phil's follows close behind, their actions becoming less fluid and more abrupt. He strains with each thrust, trying to hold out just a little longer. Trying to make Clint believe his words with the power of his actions. 

It becomes moot when Clint goes tense and still in his hand. Muscles tighten down around Phil's cock as Clint loses control. He comes with a long, low grown, spilling himself across Phil's hand and chest, his hips giving quick little jerks as he lets himself go completely. The way his body clutches at Phil, combined with the sight of Clint lost to his passion, push Phil over the edge. He lets his body follow instinct, feels his hips surge and jerk. Feels himself climax. Clint must feel it, too, because his body quivers and jerks before he slumps forward over Phil. Uncaring of the mess they've both made of one another, Phil pulls Clint down to him. Kisses him soundly on the lips.

They lay together for a few moments, turned on their sides with Clint's arms and legs tangled around Phil's body, while they attempt to breathe again. The tension that had been there when they'd returned from base is gone, replaced with a bonelessness that speaks to Clint being well sated. Phil reaches a hand up to stroke the side of his face. They can clean up in a while, then they can both walk again. After he makes Clint understand him. 

Eyes as blue as the night sky as it deepens into black stare out at him, filled with curiosity and a fragile kind of hope that is heartbreaking to see. "I love you, Clint. All of you. These mean nothing." At that, he strokes a hand down Clint's back and grazes several of the words that still live there. "They're scars. They can't hurt you anymore if you don't let them. And they don't define you." 

Phil pauses a moment so he can pull back and put enough room between them to lay his hand on Clint's chest. Right over the spot where the man's heart beats. "This is what defines you. What's inside of you, and inside your heart, is what defines you. Don't ever let anyone ever make you think anything different. I'm with you because you are the most amazing person I know. The most beautiful. The bravest and strongest. I'm with you because I love you."

Clint stares at him, expression unreadable. Time stretches and grows between them while Clint stares. Phil can almost see him trying to find the lies in his words. He'll never find them because there are none. Phil is always honest with Clint. He always has been and he always will be.

Finally, after several long moments, the clouds clear from Clint's gaze and its like the sun's come out after a weeks of rain. There is a hint of wonder in Clint's eyes. He leans forward, takes Phil's mouth in a heated kiss that makes Phil's toes curl. When he breaks away, he rests his forehead against Phil's and pants softly for breath. "I know I'm an idiot and I don't know why you put up with me, Phil. I'm just glad you do," Clint tells him quietly. One hand comes up, his calloused fingers stroking Phil's face gently. "And I don't know how I ended up with you in my life. That's something I'm glad for, too. Because I love you, too."

Phil smiles, eyes crinkling with pleasure. 

"And you're stuck with me." There is a deep sense of smugness in Clint's voice when he announces that. Phil just keeps smiling. 

He can think of worse fates.


End file.
